Koko pops. Live review of Lower Than Atlantis at Koko

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*
Lonely The Brave ***1/2**
Decade *****

Koko, Mornington Crescent, Monday 8th December 2014

It's a party. A Christmas party. Time for some pop music. 

There, I said it. Pop. You 'eard. 

Before I dive into tonight's poptastic performances, just a small rant. What's wrong with saying pop?

The Beatles were pop. The Rolling stones too. As were Abba. And so are Coldplay. U2. And so on.

The biggest selling music on the planet? Pop. Why are we so derogatory about one three letter word? Yup, we all know it's  diminutive of popular and it's a little facile to drag up that old semantic argument; but actually therein lies the crux: popular. So why has it become a dirty, cheapened word? Why do bands shy away from it? If they're after success, then surely becoming a pop band is the ultimate goal.

'Hi. I'm in an unpopular band. Playing unpopular music.' Might get you laid by some counter-culture bedroom-dwelling, black leather clad miserable goth emo groupie but it's not going to pay for the mince pies. Let alone the Champagne.

In a world obsessed with badging, naming, branding, conventions, taxonomies and labels, we often forget to move up to the broader end of the classification system. Pop covers a multitude of music. Some good. Some shit. But it's popular.

So, tonight, three popular bands are performing some popular music. Pop. 

Decade *****

First up are pop punkyesque Decade. A bit of a rum mixture. One minute pleasing pop rock with terrific harmonies and solid riffs, the next, clichéd double-time infused predictable quasi pop punk.

A seriously schizophrenic bowl of cereal. Hearty and tasty as hell in parts. Watery and whiny in others. But it's true to say that tonight's huge Christmas cake of a venue with its legendarily brilliant hi-fidelity front of house sound quality seems to suit the band's sound.

Having seen them many times in smaller sweat bunkers and bogs, they appear to be far happier in plusher, fuller surroundings. Well, who wouldn't be? Anyway, I'm led to believe that their next step on the pop journey is well underway and they are moving further away from the predictable pop punk noodlings and maturing their sound. On tonight's meaty performance, between the annoying and needless double-time reveries, there's enough evidence to suggest that they'll only move onwards and upwards if this is the case.

Pop rating: Pop corn. Generally tasty but too much unnecessary noise in and among the good stuff.

Lonely The Brave ***1/2**
Another interesting party selection on offer. Definitely well on their way up and fresh from their great joint headline tour with fellow tipped-for-the-top tyros Marmozets, this fenland five piece serve up stadium-friendly pop rock with a melancholic edge. But bizarrely seemingly without too many discernible choruses, hooks or refrains yet still capable of sending shivers and tingles down spines and up necks.

There's more than a hint of Elbow in their work, with limelight dodging David Jakes' mellifluous vocals covering the dense and rich guitar infused cake with smooth icing, but much of their oeuvre sounds too similar. 

Like a box of delicious choccy bickies that have slightly different shapes but ultimately all taste pretty much the same. Tasty alright, but a little repetitive maybe and crying out for a change of accent or flavour now and again. Nice though.

Pop rating: Pop socks. Warming, practical, functional, will be hugely popular, tantalising, but not as exciting as stockings and largely hidden from view.

Lower Than Atlantis ****1/2*

A collection of the most famous Chrimbo pop tunes get the huge sell-out crowd going in the run up to the headliner's Christmas address putting everyone in a pop party mood.

Kicking off with the insanely catchy English Kids in America from their brilliant self-titled fourth album (definitely one of the greatest albums of the year) Mr Duce and his boys tear into a set so wonderfully constructed and cleverly thought through.

Marrying huge singable refrains with butch riffs and perfect playing, this is a s good as I've ever seen LTA. And they look like they're lapping it up.

A box of goodies to truly deliver delicious taste sensation after taste sensation. Half a dozen or so taken from the newest long player are melded seamlessly into a joyous selection of feel good pop rock at its very, very finest.

Spiced up with tasty treats from earlier on their voyage with the punky vibes of FarQ, the almost post hardcore-infused Marylin's Mansion and firm face-splitting favourites like Deadliest Catch, Motor( Way of life) and Beech Like a Tree, there's not a fucking horrible coconut surprise or shitty coffee cream in sight: every one is a delicious favourite.

There's even a first ever live  outing for the novelty Christmas tune Merry Christmas (Wherever You Are)  to add to the party vibe.

The only slightly awkward moment of the evening is, because of the callow, youthful nature of a lot of the assembled throng, they have no idea what to do at the faux conclusion of the set. After the initial cheers at the end of the Christmassy 'set closer' there's an embarrassing silence. When did crowds stop shouting 'more!'. It's simple. Do the yoof of today consider it too rude, lame or uncool? Just fucking shout MORE! It says what it does on the tin. The One More Song thing that seems to have replaced it at more yooffull shows just feels too contrived. Nope, let's get folk shouting MORE again.

Anyway, the hideously embarrassing moment where Mike Duce comes out from backstage to cajole the crowd like some sort of shifty pantomime character is the only tiny downer on what is nigh on an evening of pop perfection.

The spine tingling sing-a-long of Another Sad Song kicks off the encore section with the whole glityzy chocolate box of a venue singing its very gonads off before bog rolls are thrown during Beech and finally the anthemic and driving dropped C rifftacular Here We Go 
brings the house down for one last time.

As LTA have developed, they've garnered a lot of deeply unfair criticism. Selling out? Getting softer? Even Kerrang! magazine churlishly, stupidly and unforgivably omitted the album from their top 50 of the year (guys, really?). But, you know what, if they keep producing such brilliantly crafted, considered and catchy pop as they are, then it won't just be any old Champagne with the mince pies, but a case or three of '69 Dom Perignon.

Tonight's performance has cemented LTA as true pop craftsmen. Without doubt national treasures in waiting. Without stigma. Without shame. Pop and proud,The songcraft has always been there, it's just been tightened up. The melodies and hooks better than ever. The smiles have largely replaced the scowls. Long live glorious pop and roll.

MORE!!!.

Pop rating: Pop tarts. Hot, tasty, addictive, unpretentious, fun, clever. Yum.

Bleeurgh'd vision - Live Review of Architects at Koko

Architects *****
Stray From The Path ***1/2**
Koko Camden, Friday 14th March 2014

Firstly, apologies to both Landscapes and Northlane. Due to the ever-frustrating club-night enforced early shows at the delicious faux Rococo Koko, I couldn't get to deepest Mornington Crescent early enough to run the rule over either of them.

No matter, there's already a packed pit salivating and drooling waiting for New Yoik's hardcore dahlinks Stray From The Path.

Stray From The Path ***1/2**

Kicking off with Badge And A Bullet, there's no foreplay here. Frenzied fingers plunge straight for the love button. All bounce, brio and heaving heavy hardcore. Drew York leads the assault with guts and gusto, teasing and juicing up the supplicant and breathless crowd.

They pile through seven or eight high octane bounce fests including Negative And Violent, Death Beds and, of course, Damien; which raises the fever pitch in the throbbing and circling pit to dog whistle proportions.

That all said, and despite the obvious energy, vigour and relentless fondling and thrashing, it kind of feels like a solid teenage snog and a bit of a fumble rather than a full on grown up filthy bollock-deep servicing. The delicious Eva Spence's cameo appearance notwithstanding, the whole thing stops a wee bit short of a shuddering climax and merely serves to tighten the testes and get the sap rising further in anticipation for the main rogering that we all hope is coming.

Architects *****

So, the scene is set. The lustful and lubed-up, expectant and heightened crowd assume the position, grit the teeth and spread the legs. This is going to hurt.

Launching into the full-on frenzied Gravedigger -  then, without a breath, dropping into the fearsome C.A.N.C.E.R. from the brilliant new album Lost Forever//Lost together, it's clear Sam and the boys are here to fuck and not to fuck about. The sound is immense, the reaction from the dripping and delirious packed room equally so. Something special is happening here. Something very special.

The assault is relentless. Alpha Omega brings the house down with every syllable sung back with heart and passion by the assembled love-struck sweaty orgy pile. A good smattering of material from the new album including the behemoth Naysayer, is wheeled out alongside work spanning the quintet's decade or so in the game, lending the set a perfect balance between downright brutality with blast beats and colon loosening sub drops and more melodic and harmonic reveries and seductions.

The band themselves admit they've had problems refining or even defining their sound, but whether you file it under metalcore or any other sort of core, on tonight's jaw dropping display, they've landed right on top of whatever game they're in.

Throughout the astonishing performance, engaging frontman Sam Carter comes over as genuinely and charmingly humbled. He thanks the supplicant sweaty bastards in front of him at every opportunity and oozes honestly, humility and integrity.

But despite Carter's warmth and sincerity, he and his four mates continue, unabated, with the violation and destruction of our soft organs. Drew York joins the good time gang bang during Early Grave before the set ends with the triumphant and deeply penetrating Broken Cross.

The crowd is left twitching. Replete. Slightly confused. But ultimately satiated; indeed, the stench of love in the room clings to every fibre and sweaty limb. After a brief metaphorical apres-coital fag, they're back, briefly seducing the febrile throng with the post-rock infused instrumental Red Hypergiant before whipping out the ultimate priapic, throbbing kidney wiper These Colours Don't Run to finally fuck the brains out of what's left functioning among the giddy orgy. 

To hear 1400 or so excited miscreants bellowing in unison ' you fucking pigs' is a genuine bucket list moment and the most pithy and acute encapsulation of just how something so brutal and uncompromising can engender such genuine warmth, love and unity. Breathtaking. Spine tingling. Astonishing.

Karnage in Camden - Live review of Karnivool and TesseracT at KOKO

Karnivool *****
TesseracT *****

Koko, Camden, Thursday 21st November

It's time to dive into the winter wardrobe as the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness meanders into the chilly heart of winter. So, what's in the cupboard to keep us warmed?

TesseracT *****

First up are a curious outfit with, on the face of it, well-worn leather and denim but underneath, a challenging and tight PVC thong spiked with shards of steel and doused in deep heat or bleach. Then, like some retro sci-fi B-Movie costume, topped with some sort of cod futuristic shiny space helmet. All a bit weird.

TesseracT are a definitely strange mix. Progressive metal (if that's what it is) is a genre that's kind of got away from me. Add in the obligatory djent bombast and downtuned, hi-gain chugs and punches and the obfuscation only gets more bewildering.



A pretty much full Koko doesn't seem to mind the mismatched eccentricity however and a boisterous and eager early crowd rubberneck and gawp at the explosive couture like the alikadoos and liggers at the catwalk in fashion week. Without the Bolly dahlink. Obviously.


The playing is tighter than a deep sea squid's ringpiece with all manner of polyrhythmic reveries glued together with thunderous bass and precision skin thumping. And there's lots of hair. But now that Ashe O'Hara has imbued the whole output with high quality, clean and melodic crooning, the whole costume has become super-slick; maybe, arguably a little too slick.

It's undeniably brilliantly played and performed throughout - these guys are technically top drawer, it just seems to lack a little edge. The shards of glass and rusty steel need to be rubbed in to the genitals a bit more. It comes over more Jermyn Street silk boxers than tight PVC with a fuck off codpiece.

Still, a great kick off to this evening's parade. If not a little bewildering.

Karnivool *****

It's been a while since we've seen the Aussie proggers on our shores. And marking the launch of their recent tour de force Asymmetry, 'the Vool' finally bring their antipodean dress code out for a catwalk unveiling.

The new album gets a decent airing this evening with 7 or 8 of its tunes welded into the set alongside many old favourites (but no bloody Roquefort, sadly!). And from the off, it's easy to see that they've worked bloody hard on the tailoring and finish.

It's all exquisitely presented, but with enough added 'liveness' to avoid it being a soulless or slavishly flawless run-through of the factory-made prototypes. 

The sound is perfect but not clinical; there's enough of a ragged edge to proceedings to get the heart pounding and not just the head nodding and beard stroking. Saying that, because of the dominance of the new material which obviously hasn't had much time to seep into even the most ardent fan's soft tissue, it takes a while to get going and it's not really until we're treated to the magnificent Themata that things kick off.

It's always a difficult balance; do you open wearing a big old favourite jumper or try something with the label still in the back that you're obviously fiercely proud of and want to show it off? Tonight, the new pair of knickers are the opening choice and, I'm not overly sure it was quite the right choice. 

While the songs on the magnificent album are all of the highest quality you'd come to expect from these WA wizards, they're generally more in the 'grower not a shower' camp -  and until openers The Last Few and AM War have become established favourites and generate the sing backs that Goliath and Simple Boy do, then maybe they should be tantalisingly revealed after the comfy jumper is provocatively peeled off.

That said, tonight's show is fervently and enthusiastically devoured by a lively and loved-up crowd. The best and most accessible new shoes are already becoming new favourites and We Are and The Refusal fit seamlessly among the tried and tested.

The main set does finish rather anticlimatically though with Aeons and it's only when the crowd notice the band aren't actually on stage any more that they realise they ought to politely ask for more. Which is delivered with an amuse bouche in the atmospheric but hardly toe-tapping Alpha Omega followed by the song of the night, the mighty set closer New Day which finally sets fire to this particular Camden hive and turns the packed faux-rococo room into a massive dopamine-drenched karaoke box.

All-in-all a beautifully produced and performed show which dutifully aired the latest creations but was maybe a tad light on the staples and trusted favourites. Or maybe just needed the order tweaking. Gorgeous stuff though. And I didn't mention Tool once. Er...

Escape to Victory. Live review of The Dillinger Escape Plan at Koko

The Dillinger Escape Plan *****
Three Trapped Tigers *****
Maybeshewill *****

Koko, Camden, 8th November 2013

On the face of it, tonight's bill is a little like a menu from one of those utterly pretentious 1980s wanky restaurants. You know the kind of thing; a foetal marmoset on a bed of pan fried Albanian grandmother's pubes in a bile and kumquat coulis. It just shouldn't work. Or even be there.

But that's being far too simplistic. And narrow-minded. All three acts are all bound together by a host of DNA similarities. Passion. Energy. Musicianship. The desire to bloody mindedly challenge  the status quo and fart in the face of the average or bland. All mixed up with  a unified and innate 'don't give a fuck' attitude, we're going to do it our way cojones. 

And tonight, even though it's a ridiculously early start for a metropolitan Friday night rock show, London's inquisitive, converted, obsessed and musical libertarian masses are out in force to tuck into this most startling buffet.

Maybeshewill *****

First on the tasting plate are Leicester's post rock maestros Maybeshewill. To a surprisingly big early crowd, they weave a magical delirium and hypnotic mist that old Merlin himself would have been proud of. 

The sound is crystal cear, the lightshow captivating (big up to DEP for letting/insisting that their supports get the full bag of toys to play with - most headliners give the undercard the equivalent of two or three 60w domestic bulbs, a glow stick and hang thick army blankets in front of the front of house) and mesmerising as the quintet take the bearded and plaid-draped throng on an emotional and organ-adjusting half an hour journey that seduces, tantalises and engages from the first perfectly played hemi-demi-semi quaver to the last.

This is far from indulgent muso wank though. It's huge, cinematic, spine tingling and satisfying splendour. Yes, it's clever, but never knowing or self-regarding. The fact that post rock (if it is indeed a genre at all) largely remains vocal-free exposes the music itself, but like a blind man develops better hearing, the absence of a crooner only serves to heighten the musicality and makes it work harder to captivate and beguile.

Thundering  rhythms, stunning stick work, lyrical and melodic reveries and modular arpeggios come together to provide a delicious and truly unique (and surprisingly emotionally-drenched ) taste sensation. Delicious. Bloody delicious.

Three Trapped Tigers *****

After the soundscapes and seduction of Maybeshewill, it's time to turn things up a little on the sensation-ometer. As the next course on this most challenging, exciting and outré meal, Three Trapped Tigers saunter onto the stage and deliver a meaty, jagged, brutal and massive portion of kick-arse. 

This is beautiful, multi layered cuisine, but infused with face melting chili that, at times is off the scoville scale. It's wholly unfair to lay most of the blame for the blistering mind-blowing intensity on the plate of Mr Adam Betts, the drummer. But I'm going to. 

More than just aided by Matt Calvert and Tom Rogerson on banks of keys and guitar, Betts drives this Hadean-bound, fucked up pantechnicon like some meta amphetamine powered demented dervish. No one on the earth surely hits the skins with greater power or precision. It's almost impossible to take your eyes off Betts, despite Rogerson and Calvert's best efforts, he's like Kaa the snake from Jungle book; beguiling, entrancing, mesmeric, stunning.

The barrage continues apace. But it's far from relentless; apart from going through just about every time signature on the planet (and some previously undiscovered) there's genuine contrast, nuance and dynamic to their offering.

Betts' driving is flawless and breathtaking throughout. Even the great Billy Rymer must have the odd twinge of nerves backstage as he waits in the wings. Like Maybeshewill before them, they benefit from the full-on eye-melting lightshow and, again, like their Leicestershire commrades have never sounded better.

This is top drawer music. Combining funk, classical, jazz, metal, fusion - what the fuck ever. Genuinely dazzling. You can call them math rock, noise rock, post modern up your arse on a hook rock. In the end, it's just brilliant. Truly brilliant.



The Dillinger Escape Plan *****

Always a bit difficult contemplating a main course after such perfect starters, hors d'oeuvres and canapés, but the inter-course wait means the by now totally rammed Koko is salivating, drooling and ravenous.

The house lights finally dim and a stygian landscape of screens carrying fucked-up, acid suffused weirdness, words, images and footage that would have happily graced Un Chien Andalou flicker and tantalise.

Then it kicks off. The razor sharp jump lead bulldog clamps are viciously attached to every fold of genitalia in the room and the wattage, ampage and voltage are all ramped to the max. Bodies squirm, dive, surf, ride, fit, spasm, gyrate, ejaculate and circulate. 

Dillinger are like no other band on the planet. They're as raw as a freshly peeled penis rubbed with drain cleaner, as aggressive as a starved tasmanian devil with hornets up its arse, but as calculated and clever as a sack of Harvard-educated weasels. There's no accident here.

The playing, as always is unbelievable technical and skilful maintained incredibly while jumping, diving, crowd walking, climbing, leaping and running. Billy Rymer's drumming, is crisp, polyrhythmic, mind-melting and super-human, the demonic Rasputin Liam Wilson is the heartbeat of the whole cardiac arrest fisting the baying crowd with his deep penetrating bass dildo, while Ben Weinman's and James Love's über-tight pyrotechnic fret work is relentlessly flawless but never predictable or tiring.

And the whole shit circus is lead with vim, vitriol and vigour by the impossibly hench Monsieur Greg Puciato. His eyes bulging almost as much as his ridiculous, thigh sized guns as he preens, snarls, screams and spellbinds the sweating, writhing hordes. The sing backs have never sounded louder or more passionate. The more memorable and melodic refrains in Black Bubblegum, Milk Lizard, the amazing One of Us Is The Killer and Gold Teeth On A Bum almost drown out the huge barrage of noise coming from the stage. 

There's genuine love in the room. But man love. Punching hard on the shoulder and bear hug love. No kissing, fondling or fingering here. And it's impossible not to be caught up in the testosterone-soused love-in.

Dillinger always eschew the norm. Fly in the face of convention. They're never afraid to appal as well as enthral. They are the very spirit of rock and roll. The flag wavers of the middle finger-in-the air generation. Never contrived or ever just going though the motions, they are a fluid, fearless and frightening force of nature and knock just about every other so called heavy, punk, metal, math or rap band into the most cocked of cocked hats.

I can honestly say, I'm not sure whether I actually love their music, hate it, am inexorably and chemically addicted to it or am just intrigued, bewildered and stunned by it. But tonight I fell in love again. In a manly way of course.

Tonight's weird and wonderful bill has been one of the cleverest, most uplifting and refreshing menus I've ever had the pleasure of dining from. For the first time ever, I felt it necessary to give all the acts on the bill of fare five stars. I have been left drained, breathless, hypnotised, sodomised and seduced. And that, my friends is what powerful, engaging, don't give a fuck music should all be about. A bloody men.



 

Loco at Koko - Live review of Don Broco at Koko

Don Broco *****
Pure Love *****

Koko, Camden, 18th April 2013

Due to the ridiculously massive queue, I sadly missed Decade, tonight's first support, in favour of a rather nice Camden curry. So, with apologies to the lads (who apparently did a fine job) full of prawn puri and Pinotage and sticking with the spicy food theme, it's time to tuck into tonight's entree.

Pure Love *****
A fiery, non-pretentious bowl of spice. Big-bollocked straightforward rock-infused flavours served on a bed of griddled and grizzled punky bile. With the in-your-face and ferocious Frank Carter as the scotch bonnet or black naga chilli plonked on top ready to tear your fucking neck out.

Theirs is an odd Bombay mix. Carter cajoles, insults and takes the piss out of the boisterous crowd in equal measure like a latter day Lydon; all snarl and acidity. Add in Jim Carroll's cock waving plank spanking melange of Brian May, Slash and Richie Blackmore with a contemporary rawer flavouring and hey presto - something that looks searingly hot, huge, filling, spicy but, on the face of it a bit unappealing and probably 'orribly inedible.

However, like some ridiculous molecular chefs, they only get it to bloody well work. 

Carter is loving it. Singing (you 'eard, not screaming or yelling) from the midst of the pit for most of the set, he's all swagger, piss and energy. At one point Carroll manages to get into one of Koko's balcony boxes and does his best Angus Young posturing. Carter, not one to be left out is pushed up by the crowd and scrambles up to join his hairy axeman. All pure theatre, anarchy and fun. 

This is unpretentious, honest old school rock and roll. They don't give a shit about being different for the sake of being different. While there maybe nowt too much new or experimental here, there's bags of boogie, guts, groove and even solos. Yup. Solos. And, despite moments of straying dangerously close to The Darkness (thankfully minus the coked-up falsetto) the overall effect is mouthwatering and fucking hot. And the young crowd lick the plate clean.

Pure genius.

Don Broco *****

So, after such a bloody brilliant, skin-melting exhausting and emotionally draining fire fest, could the Bedfordshire balti boys deliver even more sizzle than Carter's unstoppable spice machine?

Yeah. No bother.

From the Phal-like volcanic eruption of the anthemic set opener Priorities, it's game on. 

On the face of it, Broco are your favourite chicken tikka masala. Wholesome, tasty, not too hot or edgy. You know what to expect. But there's far more to this dish than meets the eye. There's ridiculous searing heat, sophisticated flavours and real depth beyond the initial yummy creamy sauce. There's genuine musicality. Real skill. And tonight, a remarkable sell-out crowd is in the mood for stuffing their faces. 

The meteoric and well-deserved rise of these likable Superdry superheroes has been well documented, but it's worth reminding ourselves that it wasn't long ago these lads were perennial warm up acts playing to half empty rooms of disinterested early arrivals. Ok, their amazing support of Lower Than Atlantis was a game changer and gave us an amuse-bouche or taster of what was to come, but it's remarkable that it's happened so fast.

This evening, the atmosphere is as spicy as the fare on offer. Bouncing, writhing, boiling seas of the sweaty young singing along with every word. Pyramids of push up boys, walls of love (not death), claps, panto sing-a-longs and shoulder riding all goes on relentlessly like some sort anything-goes orgy.

The set is pretty much the same as the first leg of the Priorities tour (Underworld review here>) and showcases most of the brilliant Priorities album. The Whole Truth, Actors, Hold on and Fancy Dress forming the spine. Old faves like Dreamboy with it's brilliant riff, the catchier than Chlamydia Beautiful Morning and All Good are all, well, all good. But the young crowd reaches vinegar stroke at the arrival of Thug Workout turning from a face-melting Jalfrezi into a searing double Naga tindaloo with added napalm, semtex, jiz and wasp piss.

But it'd be unfair to single out one tune as better than any other. Everything on offer tonight is served up deliciously. And the boys seem to be enjoying every second of it as they strut through their wonderfully ironic cheesy dance moves garnished with cheeky chappy grins and smoulders.

Don Broco are a breath of fresh air. Straddling genres from the meatier heavier end of things through sarcastic cheesy boy-band likeability to more complex alt and proggy flavours, they are waving the banner for the UK underground; but tunneling ever closer to the surface. 

And on tonight's evidence, it's not going to be long before this epic hugeness will pale in comparison to future even bigger epicer hugerness. Let's just all hope they don't put too much cream in to emasculate the raw heat, spice and excitement of their truly original and delicious offering.

Tasty, tasty stuff.

Here's a cobbled together iPhone vid i shot from the pit with extra angles borrowed from Alex51993. Cheers dude.

Bedford Don. America Nil. Don Broco Live at The Koko with some pop punks

Four Year Strong*****

A Loss For Words*****

Don Broco*****

Marmozets***1/2**

The Koko, Camden, 1^st  February 2012

Right, I’ll declare my slight bias before I start crapping on: I’m not really a pop punk fan. Don’t get me wrong, there’s some brilliant stuff kicking around within the genre, but generally, I find it all a little samey and predictable. So it was with more than a little scepticism that I wandered into a heaving Koko to tuck into tonight’s buffet.

Marmozets***1/2**

As a livener, first up were Marmozets. Anything but pop punk. Thank the lord.

Apart from making me feel even older than I already feel by all looking about 7, I was immediately swept away with their fierce and energetic pop/mathcore mélange.

Technical playing, challenging time signatures, a ridiculous tightness for ones so young and a brutal, Eva Spence-like delivery of diminutive singer Becca Macintyre. No wonder there’s a buzz around these tyros. They certainly produce a complex, compelling and beefy noise.

Marmozets - and you thought policemen were getting younger.

The mathcore cornershop is not blessed with groaning shelves and certainly doesn’t attract too much of a queue at the moment. But along with the likes of the phenomenal Rolo Tomassi and the ridiculously talented and fresh Rosa Valle, there’s a fascinating genre gathering speed and hopefully going to burst out to a wider audience in the not so distant future.

Apart from some sketchy vocal tuning in the not so screamy bits, Marmozets certainly did a splendid job in giving the already impressive crowd an engaging and fun maths lesson.

Don Broco*****

I bloody love Don Broco. Having seen them on many stages of all manner of shapes and sizes, I was really looking forward to seeing the mirth making chappies in this revered and hallowed venue.

However, as an interesting selection for ostensibly a Pop Punk tour, I feared a little that the back-pack wielding, big bastard baseball cap wearing, skinny jean sporting punksters wouldn’t take to the Beds boys with open eyes and open pits.

I needn’t have worried. The venerable Koko was packed to the rafters by the time the Brocans were due on.  For what will surely be the last time for these lads this low on a bill, the turn out was insane.

So, nose gripped, legs up, breath held; time to bomb into the delicious Don Broco pool of love. The lads took to the stage to a frenzied and über enthusiastic tumult. Bobby D bayed at the crowd to get involved before the first chord of Top Of The World had left Simon Delaney’s cultured fretboard. Boom. We were off. Paaaaarty time.

Looking around the heaving, partying throng, everyone was smiling. Every single mouth turned up at the corners. Even the coolest punkster couldn’t resist a grin. Every pair of eyes bulging and wide open. Feel good doesn’t come into it. This was almost group orgasm. Thankfully without the mass ejaculation. Meanwhile, on stage Bobby and the boys were smashing it. The syncronised moves, the jumps the almost tangible electricity. The smiles. Fuck, the smiles.

Onwards and upwards, the anthemic Do What We Do was next to peel the layers of paint from the walls. The crowd had dissolved into a writhing mass of  love and monsieur Damiani did his circus ringleader act with aplomb, inciting, cajoling and urging the masses to get on each other’s shoulders transforming the floor into a freak show of grotesque tall people with beanies swaying and staggering.

The delirium was as catchy as the songs themselves. More and more people eagerly flooding towards the stage to get involved.

Walk this way

Within the sadly short support set, there was even time for two new numbers. The superb and already addictive Priorities and, later on, the sublime Fancy Dress. Complete with the walk. Yup, the walk. Let’s just leave it there. If you haven’t seen it, I won’t spoil it; suffice to say, the feel good, jizz-free group orgasm moved up a notch bordering on hysterics. The year of the Broco maybe upon us. But the the walk is going to be a major part of it.

The set closer, was predictably, the rifftastic Dreamboy and as the trademark wall of death descended into a hadean circle pit (furnished firmly with smiles naturally) everyone present realised they were in the presence of something truly wonderful. Original. Fun. And, well, bloody brilliant.

The world needs more Broco. And I can’t wait to see them gracing festival stages this summer and for the new album. And as Dan Lancaster has had his fingers all over it, it’s destined to be a work of genius.

Talking of Mr Lancaster the driving force behind peerless geniuses Proceed, as a footnote, his bass player Tom Doyle has fitted into the band seamlessly and even though the thought that there may be no more Proceed (or Brieseed) is almost too much to bear, his faultless and sophisticated playing and verve is a welcomed addition to team Broco. It was lovely to see Luke, the original bass player having a beer with the lads afterwards and is obviously still very much a much-loved member of the family. He is much missed, but has handed the keys over to a more than worthy successor.

Fabulous stuff. How the hell could they be followed?

A Loss For Words*****

Oh dear. A real case of after the Lord Mayor’s show. The crowd, having gathered it’s collective breath wedged in for the first installment of an American pop punk extravaganza. Given my ignorance and general intolerance of the genre, It wouldn’t be fair to lay into them too much, so I’ll be brief. Generic, relentless, predictable and monotonous. There, I said it. There was absolutely nothing new or challenging here. The singer Matty Arsenault looked and acted like Lee Evans. One of the guitarists looked like Mark Zuckerberg. They briefly lifted the monotony with a jaunty Michael Jackson cover. The crowd liked them. I didn’t. 

Four Year Strong*****

Ok, they’re hewn from more or less the same pop punk seam as the likes of A Loss For Words, but they’re several rungs up. Thankfully. File under the likes of Such Gold and add in an infusion of Title fight. Saying that, they are pretty much walking anachronisms. The US seems to have stalled in terms of pop punk. The guts seem to have disappeared. The predictability and lack of light and shade is becoming tedious. Contrast that with the crop of exciting new bands broadly inhabiting the genre on this side of the pond including the fabulous Polar and upcoming starlets Real Adventures and the feelings of ennui and deja-vu are underscored. In red.

So FYS? What did they actually serve up? Gutsy guitars, monster riffs, beards, whiney de rigeur Hoppus/DeLong esque yanky-doodle vocals but, in fairness, tempered with tight harmonies, catchy hooks and melodic pop sensibilities. They played a lot of new stuff. They played most of their big ones. The crowd went wild. I didn’t. But, despite a muddy sound, I enjoyed it. Rather more than I thought I would. In short, they're bloody good at what they do.

However Don Broco were on another level.  But, in the words of Mandy Rice-Davis, I would say that, wouldn’t I.


Let's make sure this year does indeed become the year of the Broco. The world could do with some big fat smiles.

AWOL nation and the always amazing, best band in the whole world Arcane Roots next.

More tunes soon. Bwoooar!